Chapter 434: A Song of Ice and Fire
"No, there’s nothing else now." Zeke replied, then paused before asking, "That wild slave—how is he? Is he dead?"
Zeke remembered that the child born of that Orc mother was now Adela’s slave.
Those of Ismir would never accept such an ugly slave.
Adela’s eyes shifted slightly as she said, "He just finished drinking goat’s milk and is sleeping now. Babies tend to be drowsy."
Zeke gave Adela a deep look.
How could he not know what that child was doing?
So hideous, so lowly—those of Ismir rejected him, and Adela had only taken him in as a slave because of Aen’s orders.
After Aen left, Adela hadn’t paid much attention to the child either.
Her own position in the Pale Palace was already precarious, and now, burdened with such a wretched slave, she stood out even more.
Thus, Adela had merely ordered the slave to be thrown into a basement room and had not bothered since.
Zeke hadn’t cared much himself either, but when he returned and glanced in, he was surprised to find that the Orc child—less than six months old—had survived by gnawing on snow mice.
The little one hadn’t even grown teeth yet, and with just the force of his gums, he had killed snow mice roughly his size, torn open their hides, and sucked their blood and flesh.
Such a powerful will to survive and such tenacious vitality—it shocked even Zeke.
But then he thought of the mad Orcs.
Those savages had truly slaughtered everyone in the Orc Province and were now at war with the neighboring Marquis of Wallace.
Fortunately, it was merely the Marquis of Wallace—the poorest territory in all of Greenwood. Even so, his forces had nearly been driven back by the Orcs.
If the Orcs hadn’t followed orders to remain within the Orc Province, Northland might very well be at war with Greenwood by now.
Precisely because he had seen firsthand the might and madness of the Orcs, when Zeke looked at the child in the basement, he wondered whether it was time to choose a Whip Bearer for the Orcs.
Orcs certainly had a master, but they acknowledged only one—His Majesty Aen of Ismir.
Yet, the madness that might tarnish His Majesty’s glory could never have stemmed from his will. Only a fierce, defiant, and cruel Whip Bearer could carry out such acts.
That’s why Zeke had asked Adela.
And her answer pleased him greatly.
This little she-wolf was indeed exceptional.
She answered Zeke with such seriousness, as if she truly cared about that Orc slave.
Zeke said, "That wildling is of the Orc race, and his body carries the bloodline of an Orc noble. He is eligible to inherit the leadership of the Orcs in the Orc Province."
Who knew who the child’s father was? The Orcs lived primitively. There were no formal marriages—reproduction usually occurred whenever desire struck.
And no one cared whether the female Orc consented.
Of course, strong female Orcs didn’t care whether the male did either.
But now that Zeke said he had noble blood, then so it was.
Adela had only heard of the brutal killings by the Orcs recently and knew little of their social structure.
But that didn’t matter.
All Adela needed to understand was that this important man before her was telling her that the child was important.
So Adela replied, "So he has such noble blood? I’ll ensure his treatment matches his lineage."
Zeke shook his head. "Orcs are strong. They are Ismir’s sharpest claws. A life of luxury dulls those claws. Only the cruelest tempering can keep them razor-sharp."
Adela froze for a moment, then bowed her head. "Adela understands. I’ll make the arrangements."
Zeke nodded and gestured for her to leave.
Once she left, Zeke turned his gaze eastward, his eyes filled with worry.
He had never rested, always calculating for the future of the North—even now.
But everything in the North hinged on a man named Aen of Ismir.
What exactly are you doing, Your Majesty?
Zeke could never voice such worries. He could only suppress the probing of others with Northland’s traditions—cruelty and blood.
In the east of Northland, in the Orc Province, atop Giant Dragon Mountain Peak—
Aen, who had climbed to the mountain’s summit, could confirm that the center of the recent Streams of Light had been here.
But what wonder lay here?
Aen did not know.
How could he?
He was but an ordinary King of the North. Even having entered Dragon Soul Form, he was only Tier Six.
When he received the Dragon Soul, the now-dead but Heroic Spirit-bound Hogg had been Tier Seven.
That was a level one might call demigod—one who had glimpsed the realm of the divine.
Aen thought at least that level was necessary to truly understand what was happening.
All he could do was guess.
Yet even these guesses filled him with dread.
Those Streams of Light—perhaps they were Divine Figures.
Just the fleeting sight of them nearly erased his consciousness. What else but gods could be so powerful?
His awareness was like a fragile straw caught in a stormy sea, pulled and dragged by each Stream of Light as if gripped by the drowning.
Then he saw it—a tree, growing visibly with the naked eye. It was the endpoint of the Streams of Light.
They were entwined in its roots, seemingly being drained of nourishment to fuel its growth.
A single glance had torn Aen’s body, soul, and will apart.
He felt divided into three.
Was he still alive?
Had he already been erased?
Aen drifted in a haze. His body and will seemed to sense his soul being sucked and pulled by that tree.
Aen did not want to die.
He feared death.
Yet he was also willing to accept it.
He was a devout believer. Death was merely a beginning, a judgment of all that had come before.
But his duties were not yet fulfilled.
That was his mission.
He had yearned for power, and thus received it. And with that power came responsibility.
Yet if those Divine Figures couldn’t resist the pull, how could he possibly escape it?
Regret filled Aen’s heart.
If he were a true Northlander, he would roar now—fight even if powerless, resist even if doomed.
But his origins were in Greenwood.
So in this helplessness, Aen chose submission.
His body lost sensation. His will slowly ascended.
At his ears, a chant echoed—"Ismir, the Dragon of the North—"
Was it Zeke’s praise?
No, it was Zeke’s hope for Northland, not flattery for him.
But this chant laid out a path, and his will walked it. Where it led, he did not know.
Gradually, he reached its end—still dazed.
Then he heard voices.
"Who is this? A new Heroic Spirit? Has anyone heard of him? Greenwood or local? Surely the tales of the Hall of Heroes haven’t spread that far yet."
"Who knows? And he seems... off. It’s like he has will but no soul."
"Do you need a soul to be a Heroic Spirit? We’re all just consciousness here."
"What if he’s not fully dead? He’s qualified, but not dead yet."
"That’s possible?!"
"Maybe. In that case, it’s quite strange. We should study this. Perhaps we can use this to return to the living world. I died after taking a fertility potion and finding a woman. My kid should be walking by now. I want to see him."
"Do you think it’s possible? We’re dead. We can’t go back."
"True. The Hall of Heroes is a symbol of glory—but isn’t it also a prison?"
"Fine, fine. So what about this guy? Do we help him die properly, or what?"
"You mean test whether our powers here can affect the living world?"
"At least we’re not leaving. That’s not cheating, is it?"
"Research *is* about bending the rules."
"Damn it, you convinced me. Who’s going to do it? Who can reach across distances?"
"Wait—wait, you old fools!"
A voice Aen knew—Hogg.
So this was the Hall of Heroes.
And he—was at the boundary of life and death?
"He is Aen, Supreme King of the North. Something must have happened. He’s not dead yet. Are you trying to destroy a nation?!"
Then came the faint roar of a dragon.
"Aen! Wake up! Your mission isn’t over yet!"
Instantly, a searing pain split through his head.
Dozens of thorn-like spikes pierced into his skull. The agony roused his fading consciousness.
It was the Crown of Thorns!
Aen’s mind cleared.
Then, like a rope, his awareness was yanked away—his soul, once pulled away, rejoined his will, and both were forced back into his kneeling body.
Pain overwhelmed him.
No, it was beyond pain—indescribable.
His body, soul, and will weren’t properly aligned—something was off.
His very thoughts felt fractured, torn.
And from those torn places, he felt pain—ice and fire.
His body remained intact. The Crown of Thorns still rested atop his head, not having grown to flay his skull.
So the tearing must have been within his will and soul.
As he processed this pain, his body, soul, and will slowly aligned.
Or rather, the soul and will stretched and filled the torn parts, aligning with the body.
But—when were his soul and will torn?
And why?
Then, as if in answer, the Giant Dragon Mountain Peak beneath him quaked. Two dragon roars rang out.
"Dragons!" Aen’s voice burst out. His eyes widened. Looking down, he felt as if he locked eyes with something.
Or two overlapping entities—
The Will of the North, and the Dragon Soul.
The mountain split. Two enormous creatures burst forth, wings spread, circling Aen above the peak.
"Dragons—" Aen repeated, this time as a whisper.
The two circling dragons resembled the skeletons he’d once seen before the Pale Palace was built.
Except their bodies were a hundred times smaller, no longer mere bones but fully fleshed beings. Weaker than ancient dragons—only Tier Six by Aen’s estimation.
At least, their presence didn’t freeze his body.
"My will—and soul—" Aen sensed that the two dragons were connected to him.
One, born of his torn soul and the remnant Will of the North—a fusion of Dragon Soul and the Wrath of the North.
The other, born of his torn will and the lingering Dragon Soul—a fusion of the Wrath of the North and the Dragon Soul.
From the ancient dragon’s womb within the mountain, the two emerged, breaking through ice.
"Magical Beasts? No—they lack magical connection."
"Phantasms? No, phantasms aren’t this weak."
Aen muttered, guessed, denied.
Then, suddenly, he felt his will connect with the two newborn Dragon Souls. They in turn seemed linked to distant places—but those links snapped the moment he sensed them.
Like newborns severing umbilical cords.
And in that instant, like crying infants, both dragons let out mighty roars and unleashed their breath.
The dragon fused with the Will of the North and Aen’s Dragon Soul spat scorching flames—Northland’s fury.
The other, born of the remaining Dragon Soul and Aen’s will, breathed icy frost—cold as the phantasmal dragon of old.
The two dragons spiraled, as if composing a symphony of ice and fire.